


What Makes A Family

by MommaUrsa



Series: What Makes a Family [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MommaUrsa/pseuds/MommaUrsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a traumatic revival, Damian finds himself trying to patch himself up in the home of the Outlaws. The process is slow, but with the support of the three, he just might be able to repair himself enough to return to his father.</p><p>A series of drabbles chronicling Damian's time with the Outlaws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm mixing canons with this one. Obviously, the outlaws, but with some of the pre-boot backstory to them. Lian existed and died and Talia helped Jay out without the help of the All Cast, ect, ect.

               It was nothing like the family he used to have. It was still broken, but completely different. The three were all shattered pieces that haphazardly fit together. The three had a rocky relationship, but it was something. Their company sufficed while he remained dependent. They took care of him, making sure he got out of bed and had a full belly. He wasn’t going to die on their watch.

               The woman—Koriand’r—made sure he stayed bathed, no matter how many fits he threw over the water. The redhead made sure he had juice in his cup, something he insisted would make Damian feel more like he belonged grounded there, at least until he was better.

               Until he was no longer broken, Damian often thought.

               Damian never spoke, only watched with a dull gaze. He didn’t want to talk about it, and the trio had been quick to respect it. They never forced him to speak, and instead gave him space to heal on his own terms.

               He often heard Jason talk with the other two. They shared their experiences when they thought Damian wasn’t listening. The archer had a daughter that would be Damian’s age if she was still alive. The princess had been enslaved to save her people. She loved her home, but she didn’t want to return. She liked it here with her three—Damian thought he misheard the number the first time, but she always said her  _three_ —boys. Jason, for the most part, was silent, only giving out information if necessary.

——-

               Baths were always difficult. The very thought of being submerged in water made him anxious and gave him flashbacks to the bubbling green filling his lungs as he tried to surface, but someone was holding him down. They had to make sure he was fully healed, that his chest would not let him bleed out, allowing him to die a second time. So he stayed under, holding his breath as long as he could as he thrashed and tried to surface. He needed the first breath of life more than anything, not the liquid that had surrounded his entire being, filling his head with the low whispers telling him to kill, maim, fight, survive.

               He remembered gasping for air, coughing up green as his body convulsed. He remembered the first breath of life being tainted by the liquid filling his lungs.

               Water made him anxious. It reminded him of the things he wanted to forget, but Koriand’r was firm. She didn’t want him sleeping in the bed with them if he smelled, and so a nightly bath was mandatory. Every night he was reminded of what brought him there, of the struggle to breath, the strong arms holding him under when all he wanted was to flee.

               The woman always had to shower with him. He refused to bathe, and instead allowed the spray of the shower to wash over the daily grime. The woman would stand behind him, always with a firm, warm hand on his soft shoulder. She would give him reassuring squeezes, reminding him that he wouldn’t drown while she was there. She was his protector in the ceramic hell.

——-

               It was easier to block it out, to pretend that nothing happened, to pretend as if he were still whole. Losing himself made everything more bearable—the pain, the rage, the anguish—but losing himself also made things worse when he snapped to. Hours of blissful nothingness would quickly be replaced by a sudden onslaught of memories and emotions. He’d remember exactly why he was here and the cycle would repeat itself. Pain, nothing, more pain, followed by whispers. It was always whispering, hushed voices urging him to take the knife, telling him it would all be better if he simply took action.

               He always refrained from answering the dark, low calls. He always forced himself to slip away before the whispers grew any louder. Being able to recede to a place of nothingness, no thoughts or memories, was better than being alone with any of it.

               The television was always on, the ramblings of the History Channel or Animal Planet would lull him into his trance. He liked listening to the television. It reminded him of what was real and what wasn’t. He could tell the difference between real voices—even if it was a static buzz from the cable—and one of the whispers. The whispers were deeper. They moved him more than the low facts he listened to all day. They felt more tangible than the low rumble of his caretaker, the soft lilt of the woman who made sure he got into bed in one piece, and the raspy, lighthearted laugh of the man who made sure he got his morning juice.

——-

               There was a kitten that he had found. It was small and covered in a thick coat of black fur. The kitten was only a few months old, but there were scars covering the expanse of its body. Each nick marked a story that he would never be told. He was curious about what the kitten had seen in its short life, the fights that had left its small body almost broken. Above all else, he wanted to know what had made the kitten so afraid.

               The black cat didn’t like anyone. He refused to eat unless Damian fed him and refused to sleep unless it was on Damian’s person. The kitten, though afraid of everything, was protective of the child. His courage came when he saw Damian beginning to slip and Jason would gently nudge the kid, trying to coax him back into listening to whatever mundane conversation they were having. The kitten always bit Jason’s hand, and the moment the man would try to chastise the cat, Damian would squeeze his wrist until it bled.

               Damian and the nameless kitten worked well together. They protected each other. He made sure the kitten was comfortable and remained in an environment that kept its anxiety at bay while the kitten made sure his master remained safe. Koriand’r, Roy, and Jason quickly learned to leave the cat alone.

               They left the caretaking to Damian. It gave him something to do, something to motivate him from slipping away all day. He couldn’t spend all day in bed because the kitten would otherwise starve. He couldn’t leave—as the group had begun calling it—because the kitten would not get the care he needed. The animal may have been taken from the street, but he required a lot of work, work that Damian was more than willing to put into the animal.

——-

               He liked to draw and paint. He liked watching the colors spread across his canvas, washing away the white with different shades that he was able to create. He liked to mix colors, starting with his primary colors and going from there. The different shapes and colors, the different arcs and lines he created with his pencils and brushes kept him from slipping into his abyss. He stayed whole as he worked. He was able to concentrate as he mixed his colors.

               The whispers never interrupted him. They seemed to die off the moment he returned to his easel or sketchpad. His art consumed his entire being as he poured his every thought and emotion onto the many pages and canvases that he had been provided with. Green had been a reoccurring color at first. Green tinted his paintings, until he slowly used less and less of the offending color, reducing it so a simple symbol connecting his paintings.

               Koriand’r often told him it was like visible progress. He may have disagreed with her, but even he had noticed the way the whispers were becoming much more bearable. He no longer had to even think about choosing between the knife and his brush. He always went for the brush.

——-

               It had been a few months before Damian decided to start speaking again. He wasn’t quite sure what made him decide to break the silence, but when he felt the urge, he spoke.

               They were in the living room together. Jason was reclining with his legs propped up on the coffee table while Koriand’r sat on his opposite side. She was curled on her cushion, her arms wrapped around Damian’s body. Roy was gently running his fingers through Koriand’r’s hair from his spot in the recliner beside them.

               The three had been completely silent as they watched the program Damian had picked. His small fingers were curled around the remote and he stared almost blankly at the screen. He could feel himself slipping, but he wanted to stay. He wanted to hang on and enjoy the time with these people—his family—while he had it. He knew he was slowly being patched together and he didn’t know when his time would run out.

               He made a soft noise at first. The kitten—now much larger than he had been when Damian found him—jumped up to join his young master. The black kitten yawned, and then curled against the boy’s stomach. Damian scratched the cat’s head, eyes still focused on the television. “Tybalt,” he muttered. “Tybalt,” he stated even louder before shifting in his spot.

               All three of his guardians looked toward him. Koriand’r and Roy shared a look before glancing over at Jason. The young man’s brow had risen as his head inclined with his confusion. “Brat—what?”

               Damian ran his fingers along the kitten’s back before scratching the soft fur beneath the cat’s chin. “Tybalt. His name is Tybalt,” he decided. “So stop calling him “kitten.” It’s not his name.”

               Koriand’r’s lips slowly stretched into a warm smile as she pulled the child against her chest. “We’ll call him Tybalt, little prince,” she murmured.


	2. Chapter 2

               Damian didn’t like waking up alone. He could fall asleep alone just fine. The silence was enticing, and he always found himself shutting down before passing out into a nightmare-filled slumber. He could handle most of the nightmares, but the ones that had him waking up screaming were terrifying. His body would shake, his eyes would be wide, and he would just scream until he felt Koriand’r’s warm hand against his cheek, wiping up the tears that he refused to acknowledge.

               Koriand’r was wonderful. She was always the first one to get up when she heard his soft whimpers in the next room. She made sure he always felt safe in their little home. Her warm embraces were scarce, but she was not stingy with them. When he shook with fear after particularly bad nightmares, and she knew he would not start fighting to get out of the embrace, she would simply hold him until he fell back asleep. She was comfort, warmth, and safety. Her warm arms were enough to calm him down when he was in the right mind to know the embrace was not a threat.

               She was what he thought a mother should be.

\----

               It was a ceramic mug, dark blue with a three-quarter shot of Superman that showed exactly how strong his chin was. The trademark S of his crest had been distastefully incorporated into the man’s name, which was printed in an arc across the bottom of the mug. Shades of red, yellow, and blue colored the mug. It was an obnoxious mug, but every morning, it sat on the table, always filled to the brim with whatever juice that had been purchased for the week.

               He hated the ritual at first, choosing to ignore the mug. However, the culprit refused to give up. For days, the mug would wait for him, and then finally he decided to cave in and nurse the drink. The first week had been apple juice, the next orange, and so on and so forth until the archer had a feel for what drinks the child liked and disliked. He found that Damian favored cherry and had a strong distaste for cranberry.

               Damian hated the cup. He hated Superman’s kind smile, the smile that had thousands believing he would protect them when they most needed it. If only they knew that heroes could only save so many. They could only do so much.

               He wasn’t bitter about his death. He knew it was inevitable and he knew what he was getting himself into when he jumped into the battle between his parents. He had come to terms with his untimely demise, with the exception of some anger towards his mother, the woman who was supposed to love him, but he didn’t understand why no one saved him from being revived. They knew it had happened to Todd before, and that man had never been an al Ghul. He didn’t understand why his father wouldn’t take extra precautions, why no one even noticed his grave had been desecrated.

               The mug made him angry. Why did he come back? Why didn’t Batman—Father, _Grayson_ —save him. Why didn’t they think that his mother—no, Talia, she was no longer fit for the title—be this cruel? Father should have asked Superman to keep his ears open for any signs of Talia bringing him back, but he didn’t. He hated Superman, and he hated the damn mug.

               The mug set him off one day. He had his bad days, days where he would scream and thrash or simply refuse to get out of bed. He threw a fit, screaming in Arabic as he tried to ignore the whispers telling him to end it, to get revenge and just end it. In his fit of rage, he had knocked the cup over. The sound of ceramic shattering against the tile of the floor had silenced him.

               He collected the pieces and tried to fit them together with shaky hands. Some shards were too small to put into place, and after hours of trying to reassemble the mug, the gift that Roy had made sure to give him each morning, he gave up. It was beyond repair.

\-----

               “Damian?”

               No response. He was staring at the shards in his hands, but he wasn’t there. It was the reason why they could never leave the kid alone, even if they had Outlaw business to take care of. Kori took a lot of the shifts—the woman was very motherly and Damian was like her cub—while Jason and Roy took turns tending to him during the day.

               “Damian.” The kid was obviously not registering his voice. The archer drew closer, eyes taking in the sight of the broken mug. He reached out to take it, but Damian snapped to. His brows knitted together as he pulled the shards closer. His hands curled around the sharp edges, slicing his fingers open and causing blood to slowly dribble down the blue sides of the haphazardly put together ceramic.

               Damian slowly turned his head so he could look up at the archer. His lip quivered before a scowl took over his expression. He turned his head down and glared at the mug.

               “It’s okay, kid, we can just get a new one,” Roy laughed softly before ruffling Damian’s hair. The child’s nose wrinkled as he jerked away from the touch.

               “Tt,” he spat, and then stared down at his open hands. “I need bandages.”

               Roy sighed, lifting his hat as he ran his hand through his long, red hair. He sat the hat back on his head, and then gripped Damian’s shoulder. He gave it a light squeeze as a soft, sad smile tugged at his lips. “Kori’s going to kill me,” he laughed.

               Damian frowned, and then looked up at Roy. “I thought I was capable of being alone for ten minutes,” he murmured. “I take the blame.” His head hung low as he pushed his chair back. The legs scraped against the tile, causing Roy to shudder as he watched the child slowly rise from the chair. Damian’s shame was painfully obvious, and the archer felt sorry for the kid.

               “Hey,” Roy chuckled softly. He ruffled Damian’s hair again. “You’ll get there.”

               Damian almost believed him.

\-----

               The anxiety was almost crippling. His knees wobbled beneath him with each step he took down the stone path. He tried to focus on the green, nicely cut grass that grew around the stones, but his eyes wandered. He could see the deteriorated slate stones littering the space between the clean, hard granite and marble stones, mocking him and his anxiety. The world seemed to press down on him, trying to keep him from moving forward, but the man on his opposite side had a firm grip on his sweaty hand.

               Jason had not said a word as he led the child down the path. He remained silent, mind focused elsewhere. Damian could see the distant look in his eye. Any and all attention was focused on keeping the lit cigarette between his lips.

               Damian glanced down at his other hand, eyes lingering on the sketchpad he had decided to carry with him. He brought it up and hugged it to his chest before focusing his eyes on the stones they were following, and then the grass once they stepped off the path, until Jason came to a stop. Damian’s shoulder bumped against the man’s side, causing him to stumble back. He huffed before allowing his gaze to slowly lift until he met the sight of a large stone column.

               It was unmarked.

               Damian’s brows furrowed as he stared up at the white column. He stared at the empty space as if words would appear if he kept his gaze there. He swallowed, and then looked up at Jason before returning his gaze to the stone.

               It was unmarked. Surely he was worth more than a grave with no words describing what kind of man he had become. There was nothing about him being brave, a fighter, a brother, or son. He felt like shattering as he stared at the wordless marker, but he kept strong. He believed in his family enough to know there had to be a reason for the lack of words.

               He was a brother and a son, regardless of whether or not it was engraved into his stone.

               His body was shaking again. His breath came out shuddery as his sketchbook clattered to the ground. He released Jason’s hand before slowly stepping forward. He held a hand out, and then let it run against the smooth surface. He curled his fingers, balling his hand into a fist and letting his knuckles rest against the column.

               Damian exhaled sharply, and then turned to stare up at Jason. “I would like to draw yours as well.”

\-----

               School had been Koriand’r’s idea. They all knew the implications that came along with public school, but she and, surprisingly, Roy were big advocates for it. Jason insisted he needed to take his time, but if Damian wanted to start getting used to _normal_ people, it wasn’t a bad idea. Damian wasn’t fond of the idea, but after mulling it over, he had decided he agreed with them. If he could handle the plebeians, then he would be one step closer to being repaired enough to return home.

               He thought he was ready.

               He was wrong.

               It was becoming a common occurrence. He would overestimate how much he had healed and how much he was really ready to take on. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get a grip on his limits. He wasn’t progressing at all. He was a disgrace to the Wayne name, especially if he couldn’t even survive _one_ day at school. It was a safe place, yet he still snapped.

               He broke a kid’s nose. The kid simply touched him to ask if he wanted to go out to recess, and he punched the child. He broke their nose because they _touched_ him. He was dangerous. He didn’t think he should be allowed out of the house if he was going to attack innocent children, especially when all they wanted to know was if he wanted to go to recess.

               Koriand’r told him that he held back and that his ability to hold back, to not just jump and try to murder someone for touching him, was progress.

               This wasn’t progress. This was pathetic.

\-----

               It was one of his bad days. He knew he should get up—he did have school—but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The whispers were loud and the thought of checking out, as they had started calling it, was enticing. Staying in bed (or curled on the couch, in this case), not having to worry about blocking out the low hiss of words slipping through his mind seemed a hell of a lot better than facing the day. _Fight, maim, flee, kill_.

               _These people aren’t going to protect you._

               But Kori said they were family. Families protected each other.

Jason, despite having an issue lowering his guard, was passed out beside the teenager, drool dribbling slowly from his open mouth. The man was snoring softly. The soft thrum cut through the whispers, reminding him that they were just voices, not real. These people would protect him, even if Jason was snoring away in his deep slumber or Kori and Roy were off on some extended mission.

               Damian shifted so he could watch the man’s chest rise and fall with each relaxed breath. Tybalt pounced onto Jason’s chest, causing the man to jerk awake as the cat’s claws pierced his skin. He cursed as the cat jolted away before he could be chastised by his young master’s guardian. Damian strained to keep a straight face, despite how amusing the situation was.

               Jason rubbed his chest before lifting a hand to rub some saliva from his chin. “Stupid fucking stray,” he hissed, and then glanced over. His brow rose, but he quickly rolled his eyes and scowled. “It’s not funny, brat.”

               Damian shifted on the cushion. “I’m not laughing,” he stated as he pulled his blanket over his head.

               “Then why are you smiling?”


	3. Acceptance

               Before, slipping away had been a welcomed escape. Now, he hated slipping into the emotionless abyss to the point of fearing the emptiness. He didn’t want to lose precious time by falling into the nothingness. His pain was his own and he accepted that he needed to face it head on. Sipping was a natural reaction, now, one he wanted to step away from. He needed to heal and he finally decided healing meant coming to terms with what plagued him.

               He talked a lot. Talking to his three caretakers—his family—kept his mind present. He talked about nothing and everything. He quoted from his documentaries, spewed facts and statistics, and spoke his mind. He held nothing back, choosing honesty over slipping away.

               He sat curled on a couch cushion. He was staring at the television with an intent expression, his blanket pulled tightly around his small body as if he were hiding away from the world. Dark fingers poked out from beneath the blanket and lightly scratched Tybalt’s back. The cat purred loudly with a pleased expression.

               “Lions will kill cubs so they can start their own prides,” Damian stated as he slowly turned his head to stare at Jason. “They won’t raise the cubs of another lion.”

               The man was reclining with his feet propped on the coffee table and his hands resting on his stomach. His teal eyes were trained on the television, watching as the lioness pounced onto a zebra and taking down the large creature as the rest of her pride circled it hungrily. He never understood why the kid was always watching shows about animals if the animals were only going to die, but he wasn’t going to complain. If it pleased Damian, he was going to keep his mouth shut.

               His eyes flicked over to the teenager. “You’re a morbid little brat, you know that?” His brow rose as he reached over to scratch Tybalt’s head. The cat’s eyes narrowed and his tail began to flick around with irritation. A low growl rumbled deep in the cat’s throat. Jason was quick to pull his hand away, instead choosing to rest it against the back of Damian’s neck.

               Damian forced himself not to flinch away. He tensed, but was instantly soothed once the man’s thumb began rubbing small circles into the back of his neck. His eyes began to slowly close as he relaxed beneath the firm touch.

               “What do you think about that?” Jason turned so he could watch the television. “Lions eating the cubs, I mean.”

               Damian’s eyes slowly opened. He looked up to watch as three cubs ate their fill of the carcass. “Mothers replace the cubs with new ones. It’s life,” he replied calmly. “It is just how things are.”

               Jason yanked Damian’s hood over his head before snatching the remote. He turned down the volume, and then turned to face the teenager. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

               “No,” Damian replied, eyes still fixed on the television. “There have been cases where lionesses take in other babies that lost their mothers. Many animals displaying this type of behavior have been documented. They will adopt children of different species,” he replied just as calmly as before.

               Damian tilted his head slightly. His brows furrowed for a fraction of a second, but his expression quickly softened. “I need Koriand’r to sign my exemption slip. Swimming starts next week.”

               Damian pulled Tybalt into his lap. The cat allowed his young master to cradle him like a child. He began purring louder as Damian scratched the cat’s belly.

               “You’re smiling,” Jason pointed out.

               Damian glanced up at the man. “I am not.”

\----

               He didn’t expect to be tossed into the pool. He had an exemption slip saying he couldn’t swim, but his peers didn’t believe it.

               Damian should have been able to break out of their hold, but it had been years since he last trained. He fought hard, but slipping into a “normal” routine had left him unable to defend himself. The bullies were stronger and outnumbered him. He never stood a chance.

               When his body had hit the water, panic hit him right away. He knew he needed to hold his breath, but the panic and anxiety that had hit him had him gasping for air as his arms flapped in the water. He got a lungful of the offending liquid before surfacing. He tried to choke out a scream, to beg for help despite his pride telling him it was weak of him to even consider it.

               He heard screaming and shouts, but no one dove in to save him. He wasn’t sure if the shouting was himself or his peers. All he could focus on was the constant splash of water as his limbs flailed. He was trying to coordinate himself, but his limbs would not cooperate. He couldn’t get himself to propel. He was constantly freezing up, his movements becoming too jerky to even keep himself above the water.

              He heard the loud rattle of a whistle cutting through all the noise followed by a splash of water slapping against concrete and more water. The pool water rolled, sending Damian back down under as he continued to drown. His lungs burned, but his desire to survive kept him moving. He tried desperately to keep above. He wasn’t going to let himself die there. He would not allow that sort of humiliation.

               He felt the relief of arms around him. The strong arms pulled him out of the water and onto the hard ground. Damian coughed, hacking up water until his lungs were empty. He gasped for air as his body collapsed to ground.

               He was pathetic. He was no Wayne. He was an invalid with a disgusting fear of water.

\---

               Damian had slipped. That much was obvious when Jason entered the gymnasium, only to find the teenager huddled in a corner. Despite the blanket tossed around his damp body, Damian was shaking violently. His dark fingers were pale at the knuckles from his too-tight grip on the blanket. His eyes were blank as his head hung low. His empty gaze was directed toward the ground, but he wasn’t seeing.

               “He hasn’t said anything since he screamed for help,” the nurse had told him before Jason waved her off, promising her that he would take it from there.

               Jason was not happy. The kids that threw Damian in were only getting detention. He wanted to scare them and the bastard that allowed the teenager to get tossed into the pool. He wanted to give the assholes a taste of their own medicine, to see if they would appreciate having their world shattered with fear. He knew revenge was not the right thing to do (they were just stupid kids), but he still wished they would have been expelled rather than given a slap on the wrist.

               He didn’t believe that Damian had almost died, but the kid would suffer from this. He didn’t know how much damage had been done to the kid’s progress, but he was willing to bet it would hurt for a while. Damian was strong, but he was still human.

               He crouched down to the kid’s level, and then gently ruffled the teenager’s hair. “Damian,” he called softly.

               No response.

               “Damian,” he called again.

               Again, no response.

               “Baby bat,” his voice was even softer this time. Jason had his hands on Damian’s shoulders. He held the teen firmly as Damian’s eyes finally focused.

               Damian took a deep, shaky breath before slowly lifting his gaze to meet Jason’s. He held his guardian’s gaze, but remained silent. His body continued to shake beneath Jason’s firm grasp.

               Jason slowly rose to his feet. “You’re okay,” he murmured as he pulled Damian up. He tugged the teenager against his side. “Talk to me?”

               Damian shook his head. He didn’t feel much like talking.

\----

               Damian spent his days drawing rather than talking. His pencil glided across the smooth surface of his drawing pad, leaving behind light arcs and lines. He always switched to colored pencils or pastels. He didn’t feel like bringing out his water colors or acrylics. He needed something dry, something he could smear and smudge to create works that would keep him occupied, but also keep him from slipping.

               Art kept him focused. He didn’t have to talk to keep his mind where he needed it to be when he drew. The different colors and the sound of pencil scratching against paper kept him grounded. Each smudge of color, each dab of ink, every flick of his wrist helped him heal without receding. He could focus on his art and ignore how pathetic he felt. He could remain there, listening to Koriand’r, Roy, and Jason talk without lingering on how disgusting he felt.

               Days of silence went by, until he finally decided enough was enough.

               He set down his paper and his pencils and turned to Koriand’r. His eyes were narrowed as determination filled his expression. She returned his look with a warm smile before floating over toward the boy. She glanced over his shoulder and down at his drawing of their family. Her green eyes stared took in the happy figures splashing around in the ocean. There was a clear sky, the sun was high, and the only green to be found was in both hers and Roy’s eyes.

               “Is this what you want, little prince?” She ruffled his hair fondly as she lifted his sketchbook.

               Damian nodded slowly. “Tt.”

\----

               Acclimating himself to showering alone had been quite the challenge. He started with having his guardian sit outside the curtain, just within arm’s reach, in case he began to hyperventilate. The start was rocky. There were a few days when he needed to be held and whispered praise afterwards, not that he would ever admit to it. He was weak, but still too proud to admit to needing help.

               It took months for him to be able to shower without anyone in the bathroom. After many attacks—most of which ended with him breaking something, if not a few bones—he was finally able to handle his anxiety. Being alone still made him anxious. He was sure he would never be over his fears, but he was learning how to make it more manageable.

               He found that singing kept him from slipping while showering. The first time he showered completely alone, he had stood in the freezing water for half an hour, until Jason realized he was still inside. Koriand’r had suggested singing. He had not been fond of the idea at first, but when he gave it a try, he found it almost soothing.

               He didn’t have a nice voice, his skills were with the violin and paintbrush after all, but he wasn’t tone deaf.

              Jason and Roy new better than to pick on him when he sang softly, especially when Koriand’r would join in as she floated down the hall and past the bathroom. There had been occasions when Jason and Roy had joined in. Damian had a certain set of songs that he liked to sing in the shower, and both men had found themselves particularly fond of at least one of them.

              No one acknowledged the singing after they all chimed in with their different notes. It was just something they grew accustomed to. Damian’s soft, tenor tones would drift through their home for fifteen minutes and at least one person would join. Roy’s low bass, Koriand’r’s soothing alto tones, or Jason’s deep baritones would join in. It had almost become a family activity.

\----

               He wasn’t weak. The attacks weren’t good—he wished he didn’t have to deal with them—but they didn’t make him weak. He repeated this to himself as he sat on their beach towel, eyes focused on the water. He refused to go anywhere near it, but he was okay with that. He was content watching Roy and Koriand’r splash around in the water as he sat in the sun.

               His dark skin soaked in the warmth of the sun’s rays. He kept his fingers laced over his shins and his chin rested against his knees. Blue eyes, flecked green from his bath in the pit, were filed with mirth, even if he kept his lips pursed in a straight line. He refused to show any amusement—or any of his anxiety—and instead chose to try and appear calm.

               “Take it, brat,” Jason murmured as he held out a glass bottle filled with coke to Damian. The teenager stared up at the offering for a moment before taking the bottle. He tried to screw the cap off as Jason took a seat next to him. The man settled in, setting two other glass bottles beside him before using a metal bottle opener to pop the cap off. He passed the opener over to Damian, who quickly took it and popped the metal cap off his coke.

               Damian sat the bottle opener down, and then took a sip of his drink. He shifted uncomfortably in his spot before letting his legs stretch out in front of his body. He nursed his drink slowly as he stared out at the water. He watched the gentle waves roll and the tide slowly rise and then sink back. The tide unnerved him, but he was far enough back for it to not be anywhere near reaching their blanket.

               “You okay, kid?” Jason’s brow rose as he looked down at Damian. The teenager tilted his head back so he could stare at Jason for a moment. He was silent as he mulled over the words, and then finally decided to nod in response.

               “Tt. Of course,” he huffed, rolling his eyes.

               Jason smirked, and then shoved Damian’s head. “Stupid brat,” he snorted before taking a swig of his soda. He set it down, and then lifted the two glass bottles beside him. He tossed the bottles over to Kori and Roy as the two approached.

               Kori floated as she easily removed the cap without the bottle opener. She hovered next to Damian. She slowly descended, until she could sit with a warm arm wrapped around the teenager. The water had already dried, leaving her embrace warm and safe.

               “This was a good idea, little prince,” she sighed happily as she pulled away from the teenager.

               Roy grinned before nodding his agreement. “It was.”

               Damian couldn’t agree more.


	4. Chapter 4

            He wasn’t really sure how he convinced his family that having another animal in the house was a good idea, but he was happy to have the new family member.

            The Australia shepherd was a mix of a reddish brown, a light brown, and a black that mixed with the other two colors. Her legs were short and her ears floppy. She was a cute dog, much cuter than when he had stumbled upon the stray dog. Her long fur had been matted and coated in dirt and grime, her tail nub was still scabbed over from recently being docked off. He always assumed it was from a fight with another dog, but he wasn’t quite sure if it was that or abuse.

            Taking care of the dog helped make time seem to go by faster. Circe – which Damian had decided to call her – was a handful. He had to play with her until she was exhausted to keep her from chewing on Jason’s shoes or Roy’s arrows. Between Circe and Tybalt, the fast growing teenager had no time to dwell on the past. They – as well as the rest of his family, both old and new – were his present and future. They were all that mattered.

           

\----

            Damian had not realized how much time had gone by since his resurrection until a few weeks prior. He was nearing fifteen, and over the course of the past three years, he had not once seen any of his older family members. He had not notified them of his resurrection, though he had reasons to believe that Jason may have been informing Grayson.

            Time was not about to still, and with Talia not showing any sign of trying to attack him, he decided it was about time he be reunited with the missing part of his family.

He was not quite sure how he felt about being in the car. He tried not to focus on the slight shake to his body. Panic was slowly beginning to build, but he tried to push it down as far as he could. He kept his eyes focused on the road they were barreling down, using the passing scenery as a distraction. He could feel Jason’s eyes on him from the seat beside him and Kori’s warm hand was gently resting against his in an attempt to comfort his shaking form.

            Jason finally looked away, turning his gaze toward Roy to harass the man about not speeding in the family’s vehicle. The two men bickered until Kori stepped in and told them they were both behaving like children. Damian wanted to step in and offer a comment of his own, but his mind was too far away. He was in that place between there and gone, the one where he was completely conscious of the world around him, but was too focused on his thoughts to interact.

            Circe was restless beside him. Much like Tybalt, she was an extremely perceptive creature. She knew when Damian was upset and, just like Tybalt, she was quick to try and comfort the boy. However, her attempts required more saliva and less nuzzling when compared to his feline companion.

            The dog nosed at Damian’s hand as she continued to shift beside him. She made a few, soft whimpers, licking his hand gently, and then finally settled her head in her young master’s lap.

            Damian swallowed, finally able to focus enough to gently scratch the dog’s head. He lightly ran his fingernails against her forehead. He rolled his eyes when he saw her lips twitch up into a grin that made her under bite even more visible.

            “It’s not too late to turn back if you wish, little prince,” Kori told the boy as she pulled her hand away. She turned around in her seat, and then reached back to gently grip Damian’s chin. She smiled at him as she rubbed his jaw with her thumb. “You’re strong, no matter what you decide upon.”

            Jason smirked beside Damian. “You’re smiling,” he pointed out.

           It wasn’t meant in a teasing manner, though Damian always took it as such. He didn’t smile much, but his smiles were becoming increasingly more common. Jason felt the need to count the brief twitches of Damian’s lips and the softened expressions that were void of everything he bottled up.

            It was progress.

            Damian looked down at Circe’s head. The dog’s brown eyes were locked on him as her tail began to wag gently. “I’m sure this is what I want. I-“ he cut himself off so he could look up at Kori. His brows knitted together and he simply stared into her eyes in an attempt to convey what he meant. She _always_ knew what he was going to say.

            “You have us,” she finished for him, and then turned to face forward.

            The car ride seemed to last an eternity. He spent the ride twitching and petting Circe while Jason coaxed him into a conversation about school. He was passing all his classes and had entered another piece to an art gallery. He mentioned his teacher’s constant praise of his talent, to which Kori agreed that he was a very talented young man, and her suggestion that he look into Gotham’s art academy.

            The conversation ended abruptly once they arrived at the manor. The steel gate greeted them and, once again, Damian’s world came crashing down.

            The whispers weren’t as loud as before. They were hushed, barely audible, but he could make out what they were saying.

            _What if they don’t accept you? You’re no longer perfect. You’re broken._

            “I’m not perfect,” Damian said to himself before grabbing Circe’s leash. “But that’s okay.”

            He looked up at Jason as if searching for the answers. The man remained silent, trying to give the kid time to decide for himself. “That’s okay, kid,” he finally agreed.

            “You’re perfect enough for us,” Kori chirped as she pushed her door open. She floated out to wait for the rest of them.

            Roy turned in his seat to grin at Damian. “None of us are perfect,” he told the teen as he scratched Circe’s ear. He pulled his hand away, and then exited the vehicle.

            Jason followed before Damian could work up the nerve to step out.

            When he stepped outside, his feet immediately hit the familiar concrete of the manor’s driveway. Circe’s collar jingled as she bounced out of the car and onto the cement. He held onto Circe’s leash with a tight grip, though the dog remained close to his legs.

            Her ears went back as she bared her teeth and growled viciously. Her hackles raised and she slowly stepped out in front of Damian. The teenager looked up to see Titus bounding down the steps of the manor and racing toward him.

            “Circe, stop,” he commanded before stepping in front of the dog. “Sit.”

            The dog obeyed, leaving Damian to drop to his knees once Titus slid to a stop. The dog happily licked the teen’s face as he took a seat in front of his former young master. Damian tried to shove the Dane’s head away while simultaneously petting the creature, but he couldn’t bring himself to shove the dog away.

            “Tt,” Damian spat. “I missed you, too,” he murmured as he got to his feet.

            Titus looked over at Circe. Circe didn’t look too happy about having the dog approach her, but she allowed it since her young master had been okay with the other canine. The two dogs sniffed each other cautiously before going to licking one another’s faces. Damian snorted, and then led the two dogs toward the steps, where Grayson, Brown, Pennyworth, and Father were waiting.

            Damian stared at his father’s face. He trudged forward, only glancing back to make sure Roy, Kori, and Jason were behind him. The woman smiled warmly and he quickly looked away. He picked up his pace so that he was standing in front of the four.

            Pennyworth was holding back tears as he smiled at the boy. Whatever leftover guilt the man felt was obvious, but he was not the first to step forward.

            Surprisingly, it was his father who stepped forward. Damian didn’t flinch. He eyed the man curiously and cautiously. He expected his father to appear taller.

            “Damian-“ Bruce choked out before cutting himself off. His expression was heavily guarded, but Damian could see the hint of relief and something else—something warm and almost _happy_ —in the man’s blue eyes. It was not something he expected to see in his father’s eyes. He had prepared himself to see disappointment and maybe a hint of disgust. His presence was unnatural, something he expected to upset his father.

           Bruce slowly crouched down to the teenager’s level, and then cautiously wrapped his arms around his boy’s body. The embrace was gentle at first, almost as if the man were afraid his son would vanish if he tightened it at all. Slowly, the man’s arms began to tighten, until the embrace was warm. It was just like back when he was racing around Gotham in the red, green, and yellow, back when his father would hold him after a patrol that ended particularly badly.

           Damian had been smaller the last time they hugged. He was still a scrawny teenager, but definitely larger than when he was eleven. He was long, thin, and awkward, as was expected, considering _puberty_. At fourteen, Damian was barely short enough for his father to be at eyelevel when the man crouched.

            Damian finally returned the embrace. He buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder, silently holding on. No one said anything and no one watched. The tight, silent embrace was full of apologies and comforts that were not meant for anyone else’s eye. The tightness was everything the two needed. Actions spoke much louder than words when it came to his father and that was something that would never change. Damian was glad—it was easier to hug it out than talk it out—especially since change was not exactly the first thing he wanted to be exposed to.

            When Bruce pulled away, Dick pounced at the chance to haul the teenager into a hug. He pulled away when Damian flinched at the sudden movement.

            “It’s okay, Grayson,” Damian murmured before stepping toward his brother. The older man smiled, and then slowly wrapped his arms around the teenager. He held onto Damian as if the teen would disappear if given the chance.

            Brown joined the hug, wrapping her arms around both boys and holding tightly. “Don’t _do_ that to us,” she chastised, trying to break the tension with a joke. Her voice had cracked and Damian could feel her tears dripping down her cheeks and collecting on the thin fabric of his shirt. He turned his head and pried one of his arms free so he could wipe some of her tears away.

            “Fatgirls don’t cry,” Damian growled before scowling. “Especially not over little _demons_.”

            Brown laughed, though it came out sounding like a sob. She pulled her arm away from Grayson so she could wrap both her arms around the teenager’s waist and squeeze him until the air was forced out of his lungs. “You’re just a little ray of _sunshine_ ,” she finally managed to quip.

            Grayson slowly pulled back so he could smile down at Damian. His eyes were wet, but no tears fell. He simply flashed a brilliant smile that had his eyes crinkling at the corners. The expression was so full of relief and happiness and _love_. Damian had almost forgotten how much his oldest brother loved him.

            Grayson ruffled Damian’s hair as Brown pulled away. “Let’s go inside and catch up? We missed you, Damian.”

            Damian nodded. He missed them more than they would ever know.

\----

            Damian liked to spend most of his weekends at the manor. He couldn’t bring himself to move in with this half of his family, not after all the time he spent growing dependent upon the Outlaws, but he liked to spend as much time as he could at Father’s home. Going back and forth between the two families was supposed to be difficult, but he found it oddly easy. He preferred being able to jump between the two. It meant he had two homes, which was more than he had ever felt he had in his entire life.

            Father had agreed to pay for him to attend Gotham Art Academy. It was a high school for the arts that only took in students with promising portfolios. Building his portfolio had become important to him, especially since the subject matter had been his family. He painted portraits of each member – Pennyworth and Fatgirl included – as well as pieces that were representations of everyone he cherished.

            When he wasn’t working on school or his portfolio (schoolwork took little time, but he was committed to using much of his spare time to work on his portfolio before the deadline), he was training.  Jason had already agreed to let him join when the man was training, but now that Father was back in his life, Damian was able to go back to the cave and return to his old regimen.

            Father, Grayson, and even Brown would join him when he was in the cave. Grayson and Brown would talk his ear off, but Father was usually silent. They’d work until it was time for him to go patrol or until Damian was too exhausted to continue.

            It was a Saturday afternoon when Father finally broke his silence as he spotted Damian on the weights. His fingers curled around the bar as he led it up to rest on the metal hooks. Damian’s brow shot up in question at the sudden stop to his workout.

            “Are you expecting to go out there again?” Bruce’s brows knitted together as he watched his son sit up.

The teen turned to face his father before crossing his arms. He eyed the larger man, staring up into Bruce’s eyes as he formed his response. His lips pursed into a tight line and he let out a heavy sigh. He nodded slowly. “Not anytime soon,” he replied. “But someday.”

            Bruce scowled. “Damian-“

            Damian held a hand up as he shook his head. “Father,” he cut the man off, brows furrowing. A look of confidence – one that was extremely rare – filled his expression. “I’m not ready now. I won’t be ready in the next week or the next month, but when I am, I expect you to honor my wishes,” he stated before slowly standing up.

            Bruce remained silent as he watched his son move over to a towel that was tossed over one of the workout benches. The teen wiped the sweat away from his face. “Jason and Gordon returned to the field. So did Kori and Roy,” he murmured, and then turned to stare at his father. “Jason told me about when you were tortured, but jumped in right away before overcoming your anxiety.”

            The older man sighed, and then moved closer to the teen. He ruffled his son’s damp hair, frowning when he felt Damian flinch away. The teen swallowed, and then hesitantly pressed against the hand, allowing his father to finish the motion before pulling away completely.

            “I don’t expect to be Robin again,” Damian quietly added. “But I expect you to allow me to go back out, just as you did.”

            Bruce’s lips twitched into an almost sad smile as he stared at his son. His eyes crinkled and his age was beginning to show. “You should do your stretches. You aren’t as flexible as you used to be.”

            Damian felt his lips twitch up at the response. He knew Father would see things his way.


End file.
